


'till you bade us Adieu

by PhaedrusOfAthens



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Historical Lams, Lams - Freeform, M/M, hamilton - POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhaedrusOfAthens/pseuds/PhaedrusOfAthens
Summary: Hamilton pens his famous letter.





	'till you bade us Adieu

I paced the length of my room running my hands through my hair over and over again as though it was part of a ritual. The more I paced, the more I couldn’t stop the relentless and painfully lonely thoughts stuck in my mind. I could focus on nothing else except the words swirling in my muddled brain, but putting my pen to paper seemed somehow more agonizing.

 

Our last night together had been tender, romantic, and almost chaste compared to our usual modes of satisfaction. It was as though we were using our last moments together to memorize every irreplaceable quality of the other. How he reacted to my touch, how he tasted, his hand on mine curled into my fingers, his hair so soft and longing to be touched. It was almost perfect in its own way, but it had been clouded by what I knew would be the inevitable aching from loneliness that I couldn’t seem to quell. However agonizing it would be, I needed to write. 

 

I normally would have welcomed the silence that now invaded my room since ceasing my agitated pacing and sitting at my desk, but in my current state, it seemed oppressive and left me feeling even more empty. I stared at the blank piece of paper and rested my forehead on the palm of my hand. In my frustrated state, I wasn’t even sure how to begin; everything that came to mind sounded desperate and idiotic. 

 

A coherent sentence finally started forming, so I began, “Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words to convince you that I--”. I stopped, my pen hovering over the page. I hadn’t said those words to him yet. At least, not in the sense I was writing.

 

“--love you.”

 

There it was on paper. For the world to see. No, for just Laurens to see. 

 

Those words echoed in my head as I continued. “I shall only tell you that ’till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you.” That much was surely true. I never knew how much I had depended on him for comfort. His endless patience, which normally only served to fuel my own  _ im _ patience, was even missed. I hated the way I missed him so and how much I had grown to depend on him. So in characteristic fashion, I chastised him. 

 

“Indeed, my friend, it was not well done. You know the opinion I entertain of mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others.” That much he surely did know. I had never held back my opinions of others around him and I sometimes feared I was infecting him with my toxic cynicism.  

 

“You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love,” (there it was again), “I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me.” I still wasn’t sure  _ how _ he had managed to “artfully instill” such partiality in me. It would have been safer without it, but there was no turning back now. His damage upon my heart was done. 

 

To lessen the heaviness of the preceding paragraph, I spilled into my usual detached meanderings about camp gossip, his promotion to lieutenant colonel, and military happenings. His dear, sweet soul worried too much about his new promotion carrying with it a degree of preference over his fellow aides-de-camp; an issue I hoped I now could put to rest though I wished I could do so in person and not in writing. 

 

And then I came to an issue that had been nagging me since I peeked in his mail: the issue of a wife and child. Something he had neglected to tell me in the year and half we had known each other. Though I never had reason to believe he ever lied to me, this felt as though it was a lie of omission; as though I couldn’t be trusted with such information or perhaps he thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Whatever his reasoning, it carried with it a weight of deceptiveness most unlike him. A ridiculous fear broke its way through my tender state and I feared he may some day leave me in the same manner he left his wife and child behind in England. I tried to sound casual mentioning the mail that was being forwarded to him. I wanted him to know that I had found out his secret. 

 

As a way to perhaps annoy my dear friend, or punish him in my own way, I went on to request his surely  _ expert _ opinion in finding me a wife. In describing my ideal mate, I eagerly inserted as many bawdy jokes and innuendo that I could safely include emphasizing “ _ size” _ and “ _ body _ .” I mulled over a bit about a perhaps over the top allusion to my nose, but decided to add it anyway savoring the blush I knew would emerge on his face. If only I could be there to see it. 

 

To lessen his annoyance, I assured him, “After reviewing what I have written, I am ready to ask myself what could have put it into my head to hazard this Jeu de follie. Do I want a wife? No-”. I deliciously savored what I hoped would be relief when he read it and my insistence that I was trying to show my wit.

 

Surprisingly, putting my thoughts on paper had helped assuage some of my fears and my yearning for him. “I have gratified my feelings, by lengthening out the only kind of intercourse now in my power with my friend. Adieu

Yours.

A Hamilton”

 

I chuckled at my own “intercourse” joke and hoped he would appreciate it, but I had a feeling he would more than likely roll his eyes at the wordplay.

 

I glanced at the bed now occupied by Tilghman and my heart ached anew. Not just for his touch, but for his friendship, for our long talks, for everything about him and I frowned again. I carefully sealed my letter (this one surely had to be sealed) and touched it softly where I knew he would open it to read my heartache.


End file.
